


Numb

by TheGoodDoctor



Series: Squad Goals [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Mallory!whump, Not great fathers, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mallory is not hurting, and this is somehow worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numb

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, I have no idea what I'm talking about in almost all matters.

The day is accompanied by a deep-seated feeling of wrongness. It's August, hottest day of the year, and the air hangs heavy around them. There is no breeze, no moisture, and Gareth can hear, distantly, an ice cream van playing Greensleeves over the sounds of laughing, eager children.

It should be dark, and cold, with icy wind and rain and an eerie silence.

Gareth should be feeling sad.

Instead he is hot, the summer sun imbuing his black suit with the warmth of a small supernova, and awkward. To say that the funeral is a small affair is an understatement; he is alone but for his half-sister.

“The bastard one,” as she likes to remind him on each rare occasion that they meet. The statement is usually followed by a piercing look; she is one of few who can make him squirm. He always wants to apologise to her: for their father, for his outdated, stuffy ideas about legitimacy, for his hypocrisy, but mostly for not being in her place. Gareth has no doubt that Anastasia would make a much better Mallory than he ever has been. She deserves the house and the money. She needs it.

Gareth looks down at the mahogany box as it is slowly covered by earth. He says amen mechanically with the vicar without much awareness of having done so. He should feel sad.

Instead, he doesn't really feel anything. Not in a shocked, numb way, but in a distant and detached fashion. He feels as much for the death of his father as he would for the death of a politician to whom he has never spoken, or an employee he'd seen about but not known. He felt, vaguely, that it was a shame, but was unsure why. Arthur Mallory might be missed by those whom he had employed, but not by his children.

His father had always been cold. Only now had Gareth begun to wonder if it was hereditary.

“How is Maria?” Gareth asks as they walk through the sweltering graveyard to where the cars wait.

Anastasia looks up at him curiously. “Fine.” She smiles softly. “She's been promoted, head surgeon now.”

“And the kids?”

“The flat is covered in macaroni art. We're hoping it's a phase.” Gareth smiles and she looks at him oddly again. “Sorry,” she says, abruptly. “I just assumed you'd be like him.”

* * *

 The reading of the will is unsurprising. Anastasia goes, but it’s for appearances’ sake; everyone knows that Anastasia Clark and her wife will get nothing. Gareth walks out clutching the deeds to a manor house and documents detailing his ownership of the entire Mallory fortune with a sinking feeling in his heart.

* * *

 “Hello?”

“Yeah, hi. Um, the phone listed you as the emergency contact? You need to come the George's Head, near Soho. There's someone, um, not really in any state to go anywhere, you know?”

“...right. Okay, I'll be right over. If she's -”

“He. Um, it's a guy.”

“Ah. Floppy, curly hair?”

“Nah, short. Dark, wearing a suit, nice watch.”

“Oh good, it's not Bond.”

“Sorry?”

“His name’s Mallory. Try to keep him awake, would you?”

* * *

He really ought to give Bill a pay rise.

“Nearly there, come on, just a little further.” The man is, after all, dragging him home. Literally. He just can't seem to get his legs under him; his feet are just too far away.

He tries to convey this feeling, and Bill is very good about it, seeming to understand that zombie groaning and a flailing hand batting his cheek means thanks.

Gareth collapses on Bill's sofa. The tap runs in the kitchen and a labrador licks his face.

“Hellooo,” he slurs quietly. “Cat.” Gareth giggles and Bill huffs a laugh from the doorway.

“Have a drink, sir.”

“Noooo.”

“ _Y_ _es,_ ” Bill says, pressing the glass into his hands, before thinking better of it and supporting both head and hands. He leans back and looks intently at Gareth.

“What?” he slurs.

“Why?”

Gareth groans. “No, I'm drunk, can't tell you, goin’ sleep now.” He rolls over, pressing his face into the back of the sofa and fakes snoring loudly. Bill sighs, but leaves him be.

* * *

“I did try to make you drink some water.”

Gareth squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “My apologies,” he says through gritted teeth.

When he cracks open an eye he sees Bill run a hand through his thinning hair. He looks worried, and Mallory snaps his eyes shut again. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Tea, please.”

Tanner hums something poppy that Gareth vaguely recognises as having been the subject of many parodies a while ago but cannot place as he boils a kettle and toasts some bread. Gareth struggles into a sitting position, rubbing Cat behind the ears and earning a lick. The black lab puppy settles on his foot, tail thumping the floor, and only moves when a mug of tea and a plate of toast is placed on the coffee table before him. She eagerly follows Bill to the armchair where he sits to nurse his own mug, licking his hand when it comes within reach.

“So,” Tanner says, after a moment's silence. “You don't usually get plastered on a Friday night. You don't usually take days off.” Gareth opens his mouth and Bill holds up a hand. “You don't have to tell me, but...should I be worried?”

“Depends,” Gareth settles on. “For national security, no.”

“Yes, well, national security wasn't what I was getting ready to be worried about,” Bill says sharply. Gareth has to look away; Bill reserves that look for when Bond says or does something with no regard for his personal safety and expects no one to be bothered, and it's disconcerting from the other side.

Gareth rubs the scar on his arm thoughtfully. “My father's dead,” he says abruptly. “Funeral was yesterday, and the will.” Gareth grimaced tightly.

“Oh, shit,” Bill whispers. “You should have said, I'd have picked you up.” _Stopped you from getting plastered._

“Yes, well.” Gareth scratches the back of his neck. The silence is pressing and he gets up suddenly. “I just don't seem to - to _care_. I don't feel anything but - irritation. I've been left with a house I don't want, money I don't need, and I can't even feel sad that he's dead.” A wet nose nudges his hand. He smiles sadly down at the dog. “I just don't care.”

Bill grimaces. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.”

“No, I mean; I'm sorry that you're beating yourself up about it.” Bill rubs his forehead. “It's a valid reaction.”

“Hmm.” Mallory strokes Cat's velvet ears. “I was thinking I might go to the house today. I need to find out what I have.”

“Do you want help?” Gareth feels a rush of affection for him and the way he said it, so fast and so easy.

* * *

The five of them stand in front of the large, imposing house. “Feels like coming home,” James grimaces and Q bumps their shoulders together in silent sympathy. Cat barks at a crow in a distant tree.

“That doesn't mean that you can put a helicopter in it,” Mallory says.

“I tried telling the insurance man that it was an accident,” Bond says petulantly.

“Well, I don't think he thought it was an art installation.” Eve shades her eyes, looking up at the roof. “I was sort of expecting an actual castle, though. Where are the gargoyles?”

“Round the back,” M deadpans, and the others glance at him askance until a smile tugs at his lips briefly and Q rolls his eyes.

“This is where you grew up?” Q pushes the door open and steps into a cold, hard-edged room furnished in oak. “The entrance hall is the size of my kitchen.”

“I promise it's only a little larger than the average detached house,” M says, sparing a cursory glance for the painting of his great-grandfather above the side table and pushing forward into the kitchen. “The china needs boxing up, I suppose.”

“Not moving in? You surprise me,” Bill mutters, pulling his coat closer around him as Cat wanders over to sniff the grandfather clock curiously.

The translucent porcelain is wrapped carefully in newspaper and placed in a cardboard box. “Is this real gold on the edges?” Q says.

Gareth looks up and nods. “Early 19th century, apparently. We've had them forever.”

Q is a little more reverent with the last one. He tapes the box shut and writes clearly “GOLD CHINA” on the top.

The rest of the cupboards are emptied and sorted, Gareth separating the odd baking tray, while everything else also ends up in cardboard boxes. At the back of one top cupboard, accessible only when Q kneels on the work surface, there is a small cardboard box. “Hey, do you want this?”

M takes it and opens it. He huffs a humourless laugh. “I painted him this mug.” It's clearly not the same standard as the rest of the china in the room and is covered in delicate forget-me-nots. “I was fifteen, I think. Shows how much he used it, I suppose.”

Unsure how to respond, the others remain silent. Suddenly, M roars, pivoting and launching the mug at the wall behind him. Tanner flinches as it whizzes past his head and smashes in a shower of cheap china and blue paint. Cat whines and pushes her nose into James’ leg. M looks at the shards contemplatively. “Not my best work. That was satisfying, though.” He smiles at the others. “My apologies.”

“You're forgiven if I can have a go,” Eve says calmly.

* * *

Q beams. “Using a plate as a frizbee was just as satisfying as I always hoped.” All the cheaper china is gone, reduced to dust. “I can die happy.”

“Come on then, chaps, I'm sure there's something else we can systematically destroy,” Gareth says, and the cheering from Bill and James makes him laugh properly for the first time since Arthur Mallory decided to bother St Peter instead.

* * *

Gareth runs a finger along the back of the rocking chair in the library. “My nanny loved this chair,” he says softly. “She used to read to me.” He pushes it slightly, lets it rock, and grabs a label and pen.

“Clark,” he writes on one side, then “good for reading to children” on the other. He turns to gaze at the walls of books, floor to ceiling. “I'll leave the books, I think. Years of collecting, this.”

“Alright,” Eve says. “We're done on this floor, then, just the attic to go.”

Gareth follows her to where the others are staring at the ladder to the attic, or absence thereof. “Ladder’s jammed,” Q points out somewhat unnecessarily.

James braces his knees beneath the hatch, creating a stirrup with his hands. “Come on Q, let me take you to new heights.”

Q rolls his eyes while Bill and Eve sigh. He steps into James’ hands and is pushed up and held in the trapdoor. “One moment, it's really rather rusty. Alright down there?”

“Rather enjoying the view,” he rumbles. James’ face is level with Q’s crotch. Gareth picks a spot on the wall and stares at it like a camera on The Office.

“Hmm…” Q leans forward into James a little more. “Almost there,” he purrs.

“Oh my God, you guys.” Eve throws her hands in the air.

“This is my childhood _home,_ ” M says.

“I'm covering Cat's eyes. This is not child-friendly,” Bill adds.

The ladder is freed despite James laughing and nearly dropping Q and they all clamber up, Cat whining until she too is allowed to join them. The room is long and dusty, full of old chests and boxes.

Cat sniffs out and chases some mice while the others pick their way through the history of the Mallorys, whose motto appears to have been “What we have, we have to keep. Forever.”

Bill mutters something about Koom Valley when an enormous rolled-up canvas falls on him, but nothing else of interest is found aside from one wooden tea chest near the hatch.

“Is this you?” James says incredulously.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, it is, actually,” Gareth says awkwardly.

“You were a cute child,” Eve laughs.

“Where did it all go wrong?” Mallory grins. “Look, there's my nanny, my mother, and my father.” The nanny and mother have bright grins and their hands on the happy child's shoulders, while his father stands to the left of his mother. He’s laughing at something and looks just like Gareth. “Mother died not long after that, actually. And look,” he pulls out a photo from under it, “this was my squad in the army. And here, we won a football match against the locals.” The photos all show a younger, tanned Mallory, grinning with others his age or mock-growling at the camera.

“What happened?” Q says. “Why join MI6?”

“War,” Bill says.

“One too many and you start to wonder if any of it's working. Head for less military routes,” James adds.

“Fieldwork sucks,” Eve says decisively.

Gareth had forgotten that they knew what it was like to have boxes of photos of those long gone. Snapshots of James shooting goals for a change, Bill making faces, Eve laughing with agents she won't see again. Even Q gained his promotion through the death of Boothroyd. He closes the box. “Let's go.”

* * *

Cat yawns widely and settles on Bill's lap. He cuddles her close, stroking her soft ears and taking another sip of whiskey. “I hope you're keeping the contents of the cellar.”

“Hear hear.” James lifts the glass, wrapping an arm around Q.

Eve shivers and pulls the blanket around her shoulders a little tighter. Gareth tosses more wood on the bonfire in the middle of their circle. “You can have some, if you like.”

Eve pats him on the back. “You're my best friend.”

Bill looks up. The midnight sky stretches all around, pinpricked with stars and stories. The navigators of old used the same stars to explore, and now they look upon us. Bill used to look upon the same celestial bodies from Afghanistan, and they looked down, cold and unfeeling, as his friends bled out on the sand. The stars are a universal constant, unchanging, and the world will always continue to turn. Perhaps Gareth’s father is looking down. Bill hopes that he, and the stars, look favourably upon the five ringed around a small fire, drinking whiskey and looking to the stars.

The fire crackles. “You can be a pretentious arse sometimes, William Tanner,” Eve says matter-of-factly.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yup,” M grins.

Bill groans and lies back, hands over his eyes and shoulders shaking as their laughter fills the night.

* * *

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Gareth thinks that he's never been surer of anything. “I won't use it.”

“But... _all_ of it?” Anastasia presses, looking up from the paper.

“Yes. All the money, everything left in the house, the house itself. It's not far from the hospital or school, but I also won't mind if you sell it. It's yours.”

She shifts the child on her hip, who looks at Gareth balefully through big brown eyes. Anastasia tilts her head. “Thank you. I mean it.”

He nods and turns away. He makes it almost to the car before she calls out. “Wait.” He looks back at her as Maria leaves the house, other child in tow, to join her wife. “You can visit. If you like.” Gareth looks up, surprised. “Or just call.” She shrugs. “No pressure. Just, if you like.”

“Why?” he cannot help but ask.

“You're my brother.” Anastasia smiles a little sadly. “My kids might like a cool uncle.”

“And what of _my_ brother, hmm?” Maria teases lightly, Italian accent lilting, and her wife swats her arm.

“I'd like that,” Gareth blurts. “To visit. Sometime.”

Anastasia smiles brighter than he'd ever seen from her. “I'll hold you to that.”

It takes until Gareth gets home to realise what has changed; he _has_ lost something. Finally, he's lost the feeling of wrongness.


End file.
